


when I wake

by SMKoehl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SMKoehl/pseuds/SMKoehl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He stares blankly down at the pile of jean and plaid at his feet.</i><br/>He doesn't remember changing out of his suit. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The water is scalding when it hits his skin and he closes his eyes against the burn of it, willing his body to adjust to the high temperature. The steam builds quickly along with his heart rate. He can feel it pounding in his chest, making breathing uncomfortable and his head light. He braces an arm against the wall and watches the water cycle down the drain, vision darkening as he wonders how long he would have to stand here before he dissolved under the insistent pounding of the shower head.</i></p><p> </p><p>After Jessica's death, Sams first instinct is to go to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when I wake

He spares a guilty thought to be grateful that graduation was a week ago already as he buys a plane ticket to Chicago. Absently, he wonders if Dean is even still living there. The only contact they've had in the past four years is the small package he'd received a few months after arriving at Stanford, a tiny box that held nothing but a house key and an Illinois return address. He hits the 'confirm' button anyway, Chicago at least, will not be here where his friends keep asking if he's okay and the smell of smoke follows wherever he goes, the cloying scent settling in the back of his throat. 

It hasn't really registered yet, the fact that she's dead. It hangs on the periphery of his consciousness, kept away by some intangible barrier that leaves him feeling muted, blank. They held a memorial service for her two days ago and he'd sat unseeing, staring straight ahead , numb. He doesn't remember making a speech but he's told it was touching. He'd made Mrs. Moore cry. 

He has yet to cry. 

He's not sure what that says about him. 

He shuts his laptop with a sharp click and stands, grabbing some clothes before heading for the shower at the back of his motel room. Their apartment is no longer fit for habitation. 

He turns the tap all the way to the right and leaves it to heat while he strips, wincing as the stitches in his forearm pull as he tugs his shirt over his head. 

He stares blankly down at the pile of jean and plaid at his feet. He doesn't remember changing out of his suit. 

The water is scalding when it hits his skin and he closes his eyes against the burn of it, willing his body to adjust to the high temperature. The steam builds quickly along with his heart rate, he can feel it pounding in his chest, making breathing uncomfortable and his head light. He braces an arm against the wall and watches the water cycle down the drain, vision darkening as he wonders how long he would have to stand here before he dissolved under the insistent pounding of the shower head. 

When the water begins to turn cold he slams it off with a quick jerk and stands loose-limbed and heart racing for only a moment in the foggy air of the bath before his muscles give out on him and he drops hard onto the fiberglass bottom of the tub. His hands are too warm and shaking when he buries his face in them, trying to get his breathing under control. A part of him thinks now will be the time for him to cry, muscles loose and quaking in the rapidly cooling air, but the tears won't come. Instead he sits and waits for his body temperature to reach equilibrium, counts each breath as he feels his heart begin to slow until he can longer feel its subtle beats thrumming in his head. 

When his blood has calmed, he hauls himself up by grabbing the bar stuck to the shower wall and steps over the lip of the tub with careful movements, unwilling to add to the bruise he knows he's going to wake up with. Standing there on the dirty laminate he is suddenly exhausted, too tired to do more than pull on a pair of boxers and fall in to bed. He sets an alarm for ten p.m. so he can catch his flight. 

He spends the plane ride staring out his window at the night sky, headphones shoved hard into his ears, pointedly ignoring his neighbor. The man has attempted to start a conversation every time Sam so much as blinks in his direction. He keeps his hand in his pocket, worrying the slip of paper there with Deans address written out on it. 

An hour into the flight he has a moment of panic, afraid his constant touching might wear the words away. He pulls it out in to the cabin light with clumsy fingers and reads it over and over again, muttering the address to himself under his breath, resolved to commit it to memory.  
He is reminded of his first day of kindergarten, Dean quizzing him on his address and phone number before releasing him to his classroom. 

The plane lands at O' Hare at 4:05 a.m., local time. He is the last to get up when they're finally released, choosing to wait for the crush of people to die down before standing to grab his duffle from the overhead compartment. He nods politely to the flight attendants who bid him farewell, walks down the gangplank with stiff legs, and heads right past baggage claim to push open the large glass door separating him from the city. He hails a cab, pulling his duffle bag in after him as he slides onto the seat, and dutifully recites his brothers address just like he'd rehearsed.

At 4:57 he finds himself standing in front of Deans apartment. He stares down at the doorknob, licking his lips, unsure, until a yawn cracks his jaw and he shakes his head. He fumbles at his keys, searching for the one he has never had the occasion to use until just now and holds his breath as he waits to see if it slides home.  
It fits into the lock with an audible click and turns smoothly. He let's the breath out with a relieved smile and slips the key more confidently into the deadbolt, unlocking it with a sure flick of his wrist. He let's himself into the still dark living room, staying upright just long enough to locate a couch and sink into it, leaving his bag by the door and kicking his shoes off over the side. He falls asleep with his face pressed into the back of the couch, legs slung over the side, arms pinned between his chest and the give of the strange cushions. 

With each breath the smell of fire is replaced with the comforting scent of old books and motor oil.


End file.
